


The Quarantine Chronicles

by Crescentmoonmadness



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, That's right, What's this, a quarantine fic?, after i vowed i wouldn't be writing one?, and i loved this idea too much to leave it alone, i am weak, i hope you're happy, so here you go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:49:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescentmoonmadness/pseuds/Crescentmoonmadness
Summary: Betty is trapped in New York. Jughead is on the other side of the country. In a moment of loneliness and desperation, she signs up for a month-long writing prompt series. This is her journey in writing.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 122
Kudos: 75
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Well hey there! What's this? A new fic? Do I have other ones to finish? Absolutely. Did I vow that I wouldn't be writing a quarantine fic? Devoutly. Did I write it anyway? Yes. Am I ashamed? No! So buckle in, there's only fluff and a mild *cough*cough* dose of angst from here on out.
> 
> Disclaimer: All writing prompts are taken from Suleika Jaouad's The Isolation Journals writing challenge. They are not mine, and if you are interested in doing some writing during your quarantine, I highly suggest participating!

Betty looked out the window, taking in the eery sight of the empty street below her. In the three years she had been living in New York, she had never seen the city so quiet. Every few minutes, a single person would walk down the street, but nothing like the droves of citizens she was used to. 

She rose from her perch in the window seat. It was possibly her favorite place to sit in their entire apartment. The sun would hit it just right in the afternoons, making the soft pillow warm and inviting. She padded to the kitchen, intent on making herself a cup of coffee. She felt lucky to have some on hand. She knew that the grocery stores were absolute chaos. If she were being honest, she was terrified to brave the outside world. She was much more content to stay inside her home, where it was safe. 

She had everything she needed. Coffee, food, toilet paper (honestly, of all the things for people to hoard), and plenty of books to keep her occupied. 

The only thing that her home was lacking, however, was the one thing she wanted most. 

He had left a few weeks ago, before everything had started to fall apart. His novel was a New York Times Bestseller, and he had been asked to go on book tour across the United States, with his last tour date in Los Angeles. Of course, she had been ecstatic for him. He had worked so hard over the last two years, crafting his newest book into some of the best writing that she had ever read. 

At first, she had been okay. She had consoled herself with the knowledge that he would be home in two weeks. And then they had added more stops. Then it was three weeks. 

And then the whole world went crazy. 

She had sat in front of her laptop, watching the news, dread growing in her stomach each day. She had pleaded with him to come home before things got too bad. Before the virus shut down the entire country. He had tried. She knew he had. But his agent wouldn’t budge. They were going to finish the book tour. 

And now this was their new reality. All domestic flights grounded for the time being. Entire cities on lockdown. All because of the coronavirus. 

She sat down at the table with her fresh coffee and began scrolling through her Tweeper feed, It wasn’t long before she saw a post from some famous songwriter that she followed. A writing challenge to keep everyone’s hands and heads busy. 

She hadn’t been able to click the link fast enough. She entered her email, happy to have something new to occupy her thoughts, if not for a little while. 

She sent in her subscription, clicking over to her email. Within a few moments, a new message blipped into her inbox. She clicked on it, quickly devouring the words in front of her. 

**Welcome to Day One of The Quarantine Chronicles.**

**You have pledged to write once per day, for the next thirty days. Congratulations on beginning this journey!**

**Today’s Prompt:**

**Write a letter to someone. Tell them how your day went. How are you feeling? Tell them your favorite memory of them. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.**

Betty sipped her coffee for a moment, considering what she wanted to write. She didn’t let herself think for too long. This was supposed to be an exercise in spontaneous creativity, after all. 

She walked to their room, grabbing the heavy typewriter off Jughead's desk, and carried it back to the table. She took a moment to check the ink and load a sheet of paper into it before she sat back down, letting her fingers rest on the keys. _His_ keys. 

_Dear Jughead,_

_I wish you were here. I never realized how quiet this house could be until you were gone. Not that you’re loud. But even the quiet clacking of her laptop keys fills the silence in a way that I never could have imagined. Now everything is terrible silent. I hate it._

_My day went the same way most of my days have been in the last two weeks. I’ve been working from home, my editor insisted that everyone who could work from home continue to do so. So I’ve been sitting here, working on articles. It hasn’t been too exciting. Most of our content has been about the virus, or the economy, or both. I’m completely out of my element, but I guess it’ll make me a better writer. At least, I hope it does._

_I feel...lost. Without you, without a routine, I’m finding that I’m not as self-sufficient as I had once thought. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on you for...well, everything. I realize now that I make terrible coffee. Well, not terrible. But certainly not as good as yours. I’m not very good at making butter chicken either, and I have been craving your butter chicken. It’s a little embarrassing, actually. Here I was, thinking that I was a 21st century, independent woman, only to find out that I need my boyfriend to help me change a lightbulb. Did you know that we don’t have a step stool in this apartment? You’re tall enough to change the lightbulbs when you stand on a chair. Me? Not so much. I ended up having to get maintenance to come up and do it for me. I was humiliated. Not to mention terrified that someone else’s germs were entering my home._

_My favorite memory of you is so silly. It was when we first moved into our apartment. We were unpacking the kitchen and I was looking for a spatula. I was trying to make dinner for us, and failing miserably. I couldn’t find the bowls, or the utensils, or even the mac and cheese for a while. We ended up eating out of the pot, with wooden spoons. I remember you turned around and started digging in a box, and when you finally came up you shouted, “I found it! The most important kitchen utensil there is!” You were holding the wine corkscrew. I just remember laughing until I couldn’t breathe, while you opened a bottle of red that you had found in one of the boxes. That night we sat on the floor of our new kitchen, in the apartment that we had gotten together, eating macaroni and cheese with incorrect utensils, drinking wine out of the bottle. You always surprise me, and I miss those surprises._

_I guess I just… I miss you. I miss you more than I thought I could miss someone. I hate sleeping alone. I hate the silence in this tiny apartment, which feels smaller now even though there are fewer people in it. I hate watching trashy reality tv without your sarcastic commentary._

_I miss our lives together. And I hope you come home soon._

She looked at the screen, rereading her words as a tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t her best writing, but that wasn’t the point of the exercise. Betty looked at her phone, seeing that a half-hour had passed. It wasn’t the greatest solution, but for the time being, it was the only one she had. She was going to keep a quarantine diary, if only to maintain her sanity. 


	2. Day Two

Betty sat at the table, staring out the window beside her. The sun was gently streaming in through the window, and she was soaking up every ray that she could. It had been a long winter and she was anxious for the snow to melt and for Spring to begin. 

When they had moved to the city, they hadn’t been able to afford much more than a shoebox apartment. It had been dingy and dark, and even though she was ecstatic to be living with her boyfriend, in New York no less, their living situation left something to be desired. 

What they hadn’t been expecting was Veronica taking over her father’s real estate after he was arrested again. If that hadn’t enough of a surprise, Veronica had offered them a new apartment, much nicer than the one they had been living in at the time. 

Jughead had wanted to turn it down, and Betty had known why immediately. He was proud. He wanted to make his own way, and he certainly didn’t want handouts. It had taken Veronica well over a month to finally convince him that the apartment wasn’t being offered out of pity, but instead out of love. Veronica and Archie wanted to live closer to their best friends, and she was willing to do the work to make it happen. 

Jughead had never told her everything the two had spoken about that day, but it must have been compelling because they started packing that night. 

That was what led Betty to sit in an apartment that was much too nice for someone her age to be able to rent. The walls were all painted a luxurious off-white, the windows were floor to ceiling, and the sun illuminated every nook and cranny in a way that made her feel like it was summer even when it was the dead of winter. 

She bit her lip gently. She was procrastinating starting her writing. It was a harder prompt than the day before, and she had had to spend some time thinking about what she wanted to write about, but she was pretty sure she finally had an idea. 

**Your prompt for today:**

**Put yourself in a moment where you were not fine. Maybe you were terrible, and maybe you were TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. Put yourself back in that moment when you lied. Why did you do it? Whose feelings were you trying to save? Write what you wish you would have said, and imagine where that honest conversation could have led you.**

_ When Archie told me that he wasn’t good enough for me. I saw you the next day at Pop’s, sitting in your booth, typing away. I had walked over to talk to you, and you must have been able to see the sadness on my face because you immediately stopped typing and gave me all your attention.  _

_ Even back then, I knew that that meant you considered whatever was happening as the most important thing at the time. It takes a lot to pull you away from your writing, but you’ve always made time for me.  _

_ Anyways, you asked me what was wrong. And I lied. I told you nothing. I told you I was fine. I grabbed my strawberry shake to go, and I left you there, unable to tell you that I was broken inside. That the boy I thought I loved had told me that night before that he could never love me back. That I was too  _ perfect.  _ You’ve never called me perfect. It’s one of the things I love the most about you.  _

_ When I think about it, I’m not entirely sure why I lied in that moment. Was I ashamed of being rejected? Did I not consider us good enough friends to confide in you? Was I afraid that you would agree with Archie, or worse, think that the entire situation was juvenile?  _

_ No, none of those seem right.  _

_ If I really think about it, I know why I lied. Because if I had told you that I wasn’t fine, that I was sad, then I probably would have talked to you about why I was sad. I probably would have noticed that I wasn’t even half as devastated that morning as I had been the night before.  _

_ If I had spoken to you that morning, I would have had to come to terms with the fact that I had confessed to the wrong boy. That I had been chasing the wrong boy because the one that I really wanted terrified me. He was well-spoken, incredibly intelligent, wouldn’t let me get away with lying to him.  _

_ And you never have since the day you kissed. I can’t remember the last time I told you I was fine and you left it at that.  _

_ That’s why I lied to you that day. Because I wasn’t ready for someone to care about me as much as you do. But I have never once regretted making that leap with you, and now that it’s been six years, I only wish that I had taken the plunge sooner.  _

Betty sat back and looked at the fresh ink on the page. Using his typewriter made her feel closer to him. It made her feel like spinning her words in the beautifully poetic way that he always did, but she had always felt like no matter how hard she tried, her writing always came out more like an article than prose. 

At least she had lots of time to work on it. 


	3. Day Three

“There are no rental vehicles,” his voice was tinny through the small speaker on her phone, making him sound a million miles away, “No rentals, no flights, no buses. Nothing.”

“I know, Jug,” she reassured him. He was beating himself up for not being able to come home, and she hated it. There was nothing either of them could do. “I know you’re doing your best, Juggie. We just… have to be patient.”

There was silence for a moment, and she feared that their call had dropped, but then he spoke quietly, “I miss you. I want to come home, Betts. I don’t… I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Her heart clenched painfully at the quiet in his voice. She knew he was hurting. She was too. 

“Shit,” he cursed, “Betts, I have to go. Jerry says it’s time for my livestream.” 

She pursed her lips, irrationally hating Jugehad’s manager at that moment. “Ok, Jug. I love you,” she murmured. 

“I love you, too.”

He was about to hang up when she spoke again, “You wrote an amazing book, Jug. Don’t forget that.” She smiled at his chuckle through the phone. 

“Thanks, Betts. I’ll call you later tonight.”

“Bye.” 

She let the call fade, tucking her cell phone into her pocket. She was doing her best to put on a brae face. She knew that they both couldn’t be spiraling at the same time, and Jughead had always been the more dramatic of the two of them. She smiled to herself sadly. She missed his dramatics. His long, drawn-out rants about his editor and his professors, and everything in between. 

Mostly, she just missed having someone to talk to in person. 

She walked over to their table grabbing her notebook and favorite pen out of the small cup that held all their writing utensils. She felt like handwriting that day, and she needed to do her writing prompt anyway. 

She curled up in the window, letting her knee rest against the glass as she balanced her cell phone on her knee, opening up her emails to that day’s prompt. 

**Your prompt for today:**

**Write a travel journal entry from your home, could be your living room, could be your bed. Write as though you've just arrived in a new place (because, in many ways, you have) and what you're observing about the place and how you feel in it. Write what you see, hear, and touch, as though it's all brand new. What are you learning about yourself in this different land, with all its deprivations?**

She read it over again, trying to decide how to tackle the challenge. She placed her pen to paper, and let her thoughts flow. 

_ I sit in a window and look around at my surroundings. There is an overabundance of greenery. The shelves that line the walls directly around this window seat are filled with a mix of plants and books. Games and small knick-knacks. I take in the titles of the books, and surmise that whoever lives here likes a mixture of true crime and biographies. It’s a strange mix of genres, but something about it seems right.  _

_ The plants sit silently, they look healthy and happy. There are a few succulents, a spider plant, and a cactus. All plants that are easy to take care of and that can withstand being neglected. Perhaps their owner is a busy CEO? But then again, the size of the apartment would hint at most likely not. It’s nice, but not  _ filthy rich  _ nice.  _

_ There is a sofa couch a few feet away, positioned perfectly so that the sun would warm it. There is a soft blanket draped over the arm of the chair, looking worn from overuse. Whoever sits there clearly likes to cuddle in, maybe with one of the numerous books that line the wall.  _

_ There’s a typewriter sitting on the small table, a half-page of paper sticking out the top, the ink long dry. Maybe a writer lives here? A reporter? Journalist? Maybe an author.  _

_ I look around, taking in the white walls, the sparkling countertops. This place feels...welcoming. Safe. Then I look outside. That’s the real horror. All that once felt wonderous now feels like one big risk. Like if I were to step outside, I would be taking my life into my own hands.  _

_ But there are some things that the outside world can offer than this new place cannot.  _

_ Fresh air, for example.  _

_ I miss taking walks in the park, smelling the clean air. I miss getting a coffee from the shop down the street. I even miss my commute to school. I must be losing my mind if I miss the subway.  _

Betty finished writing, putting her pen and journal down on the cushion. It was an odd exercise, to look at her apartment as if she were an outsider. Yet, it somehow made her appreciate her space all the more. It was warm, inviting, and familiar. It was a space that she and Jughead had worked hard to make their own. 

They had spent the last year in thrift shops and at farmer’s markets, accumulating small items here and there that they felt would add to their home. Someday, they would own a bigger house, maybe something out in the suburbs, where they would raise their children. And maybe their style would change, but for now, they were content with the eclectic collection that they had procured.

She laughed mirthlessly to herself as she looked around the apartment. The prompt for the day had been to describe her space like she was a stranger within it, but the truth was, without Jughead, their house didn’t feel like home. 

She took some ironic delight in the realization that the cliche  _ home is where your heart is  _ turned out to all too true. Your home  _ was  _ where your heart was, and her home was across the country, unable to complete their home. 


	4. Day Four

Betty sat at the table, her head in her hands. She was determined to do every day of this writing challenge, but she had hit a wall. She had to admit that she was more than a little disappointed that she had met a block so early in the challenge, some part of her felt like an imposter. How could she call herself a proficient writer if she couldn’t even journal for four days in a row without hitting a block? 

She took a deep breath and turned on her stereo, louder than what was probably considered respectful to her neighbors. The gentle melody began to float through the room, and she placed her hands on the keys of the typewriter, closing her eyes. She needed to write from the heart, and she just needed to keep messing it up until she got it right. 

**Your prompt for the day:**

**Reflect on a particular moment in your past when you felt most in touch with your “Glorious Awkwardness.” It could be a cringe-worthy moment you’ve replayed a thousand times in your mind. Or something essential about who you are, something unchangeable. Go back there.**

**What did you learn from it? Can you laugh about it? And if not, why?**

~~_ There was the time… _ _   
  
_ ~~

~~~~_ I can’t remember the last time I acted awkwardly… _ __   
  


~~_ I’m not an awkward person… _ ~~

_ I’ve been trying to write this all day, and before now I hadn’t been able to think of a single time that I felt awkward about, but I was coming at it from completely the wrong angle. I was searching for a memory of when  _ I  _ had felt awkward, and it was hard because so many of my memories that could be considered  _ awkward  _ have been reassigned to different emotions in my mind.  _

_ But then, I reframed my thinking a little, and I really focused on that glorious awkwardness, of how I’ve manipulated situations in my favor by making others feel awkward.  _

_ The memory that jumped to the forefront of my mind was when we were in high school. We were investigating something, it’s silly, but I can’t remember exactly what. We were trying to get into the back of the doctor’s office. There was something in the back office that we needed, but the receptionist was not having any of it.  _

_ She must have smelled our intentions from a mile away. I had known that there was no way we were going to get past her without causing a scene, and before I could stop myself, I started sobbing.  _

_ I remember rambling on and on about coming to the clinic to talk to the doctor about my ‘pregnancy’, and how I couldn’t let my mother find out. I had begged her to let me use the bathroom, and just like that, she let us into the back. When she looked like she was going to stick around to wait for us, I just started crying harder. It didn’t take her too long after that to bolt back to her desk, which allowed us to break into the file room.  _

_ At the time, I had felt so accomplished for getting us where we needed to go, even if it meant I had to make a fool of myself. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized how powerful that so-called ‘glorious awkwardness’ could be. I realized that people will do just about anything to avoid an awkward situation. And honestly, in my experience, that is the most valuable tool I have available to me as a journalist.  _

_ Now that it’s been a few years, I can look back on that memory and laugh, but also, I can recognize that there has, and always will be, a determination inside that is willing to do whatever it takes to get what I need. And that’s a pretty powerful superpower.  _

Betty laughed softly to herself as she read over her words. She missed the days where she and Jughead could be found running all over Riverdale, solving one mystery after another. It had been a long time since they had done anything like that, their lives settling down drastically after trading in their small town for a big city. 

Some part of her missed it, the investigating, searching for clues, drawing conclusions. There had been a certain rush of uncovering a truth that wanted to remain hidden. It was what had led her to apply to the journalism program at NYU. Eventually, she wanted to write investigative pieces for the Times, but for now, writing pieces for their school newspaper would suffice. 

Betty took a deep breath, knowing that, for now, a least, she was perfectly content with the little life that they had made together.


	5. Day Five

Betty was looking through old photos, having decided earlier that day that she was going to clean up her photo folders on her cell phone. She had started off being productive but soon had fallen down the rabbit hole of old photos. There were ones of her and Veronica, proudly donning their Vixens outfits. Some of her and Archie working on the jalopy. A few of her and Kevin, working on decorations for a dance. These kinds of photos were filtered throughout, but the large majority of photos were of her and Jughead, which she found hilarious considering Jughead’s aversion to his photo being taken. It just reminded her of how much he loved her. 

Anytime she held up her phone, he would sign heavily, playing up how much he hated it. But as soon as she pressed her face close to his, he would beam at the camera, dazzling her in a way that made it hard to breathe. 

Her favorite so far had to be the one of her and Jughead at their senior prom. He had shown up to her house, a sleek black tux donning his body, a corsage in his hand, and obviously very nervous. She herself had found the perfect dress for the night. It was a beautiful champagne-mixed-with-rose-gold, the bodice was mostly lace, with tiny gems sewn throughout. It featured a plunging neckline that her mother hadn’t been overly impressed with, but not so much that she made Betty return the dress. The bodice ended at the top of Betty’s hipbones, with the lace playing artfully into the skirt section. The skirt itself was delicate, reminding Betty of clouds. There was a thin, silk slip underneath three layers of tulle. While the slip ended just above her knees, the tulle carried all the way to the floor, with a slit up to her mid-thigh on the right side. Another feature that Alice almost vetoed but didn’t. 

She had worn her hair down, styled in long, bouncing curls that she parted drastically to the left side, a way to offset the slit, according to Veronica. Her best friend had wanted Betty to wear dark, dramatic makeup as well, but Betty had opted for soft peaches instead of the blacks that Veronica wanted. 

She laughed as she remembered how Jughead had looked when she had answered the door that night. A mix of awe and reverie, like she had hung the moon herself. They hadn’t stayed at the house long, Veronica and Archie had been on their way in the limo, but they had had time for a couple of photos. 

It was those photos that Betty was looking at now. They were standing close, no space between their bodies from their shoulders to their knees. His arm was curled around her waist, her head tucked into his shoulder. But what caught Betty’s eye was the way Jughead looked at her. At the time, she had thought they were both smiling at the camera, and there were certainly a few photos where they were, but not this one. 

In this photo, Betty was smiling at the camera, her arms wrapped around his middle. Jughead, however, was looking down at her, his black curls falling into his eyes, his beanie abandoned for the night. The look of absolute adoration and love astounded Betty. It filled her with a swirling cacophony of butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach. 

She tapped the ‘share’ icon at the bottom, sending it to Jughead along with a heart emoji. The response was almost instantaneous. 

_ I love you.  _

She smiled, sighing lightly. If you had asked her in freshman year if she thought she would ever be loved like she was now, she would have said no. Of course, she had always hoped she would find someone who would love her unconditionally, but she wasn’t certain. She sent a quick text back before settling into her spot in the window with her notebook and pen. 

_ I love you, too.  _

**Your prompt for today:**

**Find a good spot in front of your favorite window. What do you see? Write about the view—this can be a description of what’s unfolding right now, or you can branch off into a fictional reality. Maybe the window is open and sounds, smells, and a breeze are slipping in; maybe there are people in the street, maybe it’s empty. Either way, record the moment.**

_ The sun is starting to set. The oranges and reds are bouncing off the buildings that rise up around me. We live on the fourth floor, so we have a great view of the street. New York looks nothing like the New York I have come to know and love. The window is open, just a little, to let the stuffy air in the apartment out. _

_ Normally, when the window is open, there is a nonstop melody of city sounds: horns honking, bicycle bells, the ever-present murmuring of people talking. Today, however, nothing. The city is quiet, and it is eery to the point of being unsettling.  _

_ Usually, I can sit in this window and people watch all day without getting bored. I would ist here and create lives and scenarios for all those who walked by, but I can no longer do that. Barely anyone is outside, every one preferring the safety of their own homes. I can’t say I blame them. New York is practically the North American epicenter for this virus. _

_ We have all been sequestered in our homes due to crippling fear. But I can still look outside, I can still imagine what it would be like in another other normal spring. The snow is disintegrating day by day, leaving behind slushy piles of sand and mud. Everything is coated in a thin layer of wet, which would make rubber boots a necessity if one were to go outside.  _

_ There is a man walking his dog down on the street. He is wearing a mask and walking in the middle of the street, something unheard of in this city. There is so little traffic now, though, that a person could walk down almost any street without fear of being run down. I watch people as they greet each other, and it breaks my heart to see the open hostility that some people are carrying towards others. They walk with their heads down, glaring at anyone who gets too close to them. There are others, however, who embody sunshine. They walk proudly, smiling and greeting everyone they meet. It is these people that give me hope.  _

_ I won’t lie, one of my biggest concerns is that after all this is over, we will have lost a little of our humanity, of our empathy.  _

_ But then I watch those people who walk, unafraid of this virus, unwilling to abandon their hope, and I feel a little better.  _

_ We are going to come out of this, and I am praying to anyone who is listening that we will come out stronger, more understanding, and with a little more grace than we once had.  _


	6. Day Six

**Your prompt for today:**

**Okay, close your eyes. Maybe lie down so you’re cozy? A blanket is nice. Okay. What do you see? At first, it’s dark in there. But if you really look, you will start to see pictures. Maybe it’s a bear with claws, or an ice cream cone, or a memory. Like, cuddling your mom. Maybe it’s words, like LOVE or DANCING. Sometimes it’s just tickly lights. Whatever you see, write about it. Really explain it until it becomes a story. I like to draw what I see, too.**

Betty was sitting at the table, fingers placed on the typewriter’s keys, eyes trained on her laptop. She wasn’t great at visualizing. It was the biggest reason why she enjoyed investigative journalism, or any journalism, for that matter. There was no fluff. There were facts, truths, and absolutely no wavering about those two things. She usually left the creative writing to Jughead. Even though he wrote mostly true crime, Betty had read snippets of his fiction over the years, and it was amazing. 

So the thought of closing her eyes and using her imagination was daunting, to say the least. Her knee bounced impatiently under the table. She  _ wanted  _ to write. Her fingers itching to tap across the keys. She would be lying if she were to say that she hadn’t been enjoying the complete freedom of doing journal prompts. The writing, she had found, made her feel calm and grounded. 

She sucked a breath in between her teeth. She just needed to get over her aversion. She knew she would feel silly at first, but maybe something amazing would come from stepping outside her comfort zone. 

She took her fingers off the keys and sat back in her seat, adjusting so that she was sitting comfortably with one foot tucked up underneath her. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, letting her mind drift to wherever it wanted to go. 

Bits and pieces of memories and thoughts flitted around, nothing substantial enough for her to grasp until one stuck. She shot forwards, her eyes snapping open, fingers flying to the keys. 

_ Autumn in Fox Forest. Sweetwater River is rolling lazily by us, bubbling and bumping over stones that the current has worn smooth. Sometimes we like to roll up our jeans and walk on the stones, testing our balance against the slippery rocks.  _

_ Trees everywhere exploding in an array of burnt oranges, blood reds, and vibrant yellows. Maples trees file along the bank. Most of the trees in Fox Forest are maples. Looking at them makes me feel happy that we live somewhere with maple trees. They are beautiful, tall and majestic, guardians of the forest.  _

_ You are wearing your red flannel, the buttons undone, revealing a black tank top underneath. Your suspenders hang carelessly at your sides, the edges of them dragging in the water as we walk amongst the stones. _

_ My hand is wrapped in yours, warm and homey. Your fingers are strong and safe, they remind me that I am loved, that I am taken care of. I hope mine remind you of that, too. You squeeze my hand and smile at me, that dazzling smile that makes the sun wink out of existence. It has too, there isn’t room in the universe for the sun and  _ that  _ smile. Something has to give.  _

_ We don’t speak. There’s nothing we need to say. We are content just being in each other’s company. If you were to speak, I know that it wouldn’t ruin the atmosphere. I love talking to you. I love hearing your thoughts, your ponderings, your convictions. I love listening to every word that drips from your mouth like honey.  _

_ I love everything about you. Your fingers, from which the most fantastic of stories are spun. Your hair, black like the night, but more welcoming. Cloud soft and silk in my hands. Your lips, soft as a whisper on mine. Every inch of you, all seventy-and-a-half, holds a special place in my heart.  _

_ We walk until the riverbed becomes unpassable, then we turn back and slowly make our way back to our shoes.  _

_ The sun starts to set over the trees and hills in the distance, another explosion of rouge, sapphire, and liquid sunlight. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. It takes my breath away, and as I gasp, trying to reconcile with myself how something so beautiful can exist in this world, I feel your eyes on me, and I know. I see it in your eyes. In that moment, I finally understand that I am to you what this sunset is to me.  _

_ And it makes me love you all the more.  _

Betty sat back, her mind feeling foggy from writing so furiously. She reads over her words as if it were the first time she had ever seen them. It’s not a memory, she realizes, although she and Jughead had been to Sweetwater River plenty of times. No, it was something much more valuable than a memory. 

It was hope. Hope for a future where she could e reunited with the man that she loved. With the man that took her breath away like that sunset would take her breath away. She made a vow then, that no matter what, she and Jughead would walk along Sweetwater River’s banks that fall, virus or no virus. 


	7. Day Seven

Her feet hit the pavement again and again. Her nerves were shot and she had needed to get out of the house. So she had donned a pair of leggings, a fitted sweater, and her runners, shoving her headphones into her ears as she left their apartment. 

She had started slow, trying to only focus on her breathing, a deep breath in for three counts, out for two. Over and over again until it became muscle memory. She was trying her best to avoid thinking too much, but she wasn’t succeeding. Thoughts kept swarming her, picking away at her resolve until her walls threatening to crumble completely. 

_ I’m sorry, Betts.  _

She turned left abruptly, a desperate attempt in shaking off her own rabid thoughts. 

_ It doesn’t look like I’ll be coming home anytime soon.  _

She clenched her fists as she ran, picking up her pace.

_ Maybe next week. California is completely shut down. We are staying with Toni and Cheryl, but… _

Betty was running at a pace that she couldn’t possibly maintain. Her vision blurred from both exhaustion and frustration, meaning that she didn’t see the small raised bed of concrete ahead of her. Her toe caught at the last moment, sending her crashing to the ground in a heap. Pain burst across her body, her elbow, her knee, her hips. All on fire. 

Betty groaned and tried to push herself up, but before she could a hand appeared in her line of sight. She jerked her head up and saw that a man, not too much older than herself, stood in front of her, a concerned look on his face, his hand outstretched. 

“Are you ok, miss? That was quite the tumble,” he said. Betty didn’t think, she didn’t stop to process. Her fight or flight instincts took over and she scrambled back from him, pushing herself to her feet. He was too close. There was no way that was six feet of distance. And he wasn’t wearing a mask, or gloves for that matter. 

Betty tried to get out a gasp of air, the panic flooding her system making it impossible to breathe. “I’m sorry,” she managed to get out, “thank you, but...six feet… virus…” The words came out between gasps, and she felt her cheeks grow hot. She took one look at the pity on his face and made up her mind. 

“Thank you,” she blurted, taking off down the street. She joints that she had probably bruised were screaming at her to stop, but she couldn’t. Her brain was sending signals to every part of her that she was in mortal danger and that she needed to run far and run fast. 

She didn’t stop until she got home, opening her door hastily and slamming it shut. She ripped off her clothes, walking quickly to the bathroom and putting the plug in the tub. She twisted the water to scalding hot as she stripped down to nothing, throwing all her clothes in the steaming water. Her chest heaved with fear, and she still couldn’t breathe. She watched as the tub filled, turning the heat down and switching the shower nozzle on as soon as her clothes could be submerged. Before waiting for the water to cool, she jumped into the tub, the water scalding her feet. She grabbed her loofa and dumped body wash on it, working it into a lather quickly. She scrubbed her skin red, scouring every inch of her body twice, three times, until she was certain that she was completely clean. She dropped her loofa in the water below, leaning against the wall of the shower as huge sobs threatened to choke her. 

Once the sobs had subsided and she was dry, she dressed in her warmest pajamas, the soft flannel resting reassuringly on her skin. Betty padded quietly into the kitchen, turning the kettle on. She turned to the fridge, grabbing a small container of chicken and rice from its shelves. She put the container in the microwave to warm it and stood at the counter, staring out the large window as she waited. 

She felt empty now, as if she were light enough to float away, never to be seen again. If felt like she wasn’t there, not really. Like she was just a shade of a person, or, more precisely, the person she once was. This quarantine was ruining everything. 

She fixed her tea once the water was hot enough and took her food out of the microwave, walking to sit at the table. She sipped her tea as she read the prompt for the day. 

**Your prompt for the day:**

**Write a letter to your younger self. Thank them, praise them, scold them, comfort them—engage in whatever way you feel led with one or many versions of your younger self. Whatever comes to mind.**

**Now, let’s shift to exploring your older self. What would you want to say? To ask? To request? Tell your older self what you are doing now in service of them. Tell them what the ideal situation might look like when you finally meet—where might you be living, what type of work might you be doing, who you might be spending time and space with.**

_ Betty,  _

_ You are so hard on yourself. You strive to do your best at absolutely everything, even to the detriment of your own mental health. I know that this was all you knew, that you thought receiving love was a direct correlation to how well you proved your competence. There are so many days that I wish I could go back in time and give you a hug and whisper in your ear that you are enough even on the days when you don’t feel like that’s true.  _

_ I know it took a long time to undo that kind of thinking. I know that it was a lot of hours spent with the school guidance counselor, crying and asking why you weren’t good enough. But you were. You were always good enough.  _

_ I want to thank you for all the hard work you did to repair your wounds. All that time you felt like it was agony to fix what had been broken inside you by the people who were supposed to love you unconditionally. You made us better. You made us stronger. You made us capable of loving Jughead with our whole hearts, with no reservations. You made it so that we could accept his love and know that it is real and true and honest. All that hard work you did pays off every day.  _

_ So thank you, for doing the hardest work when you were young. _

_ Betty,  _

_ Tell me that we make it out of this okay. Tell me that there will be a day where I’m not afraid to walk down the street, or take a stranger’s hand who offers to help me up after I fall. The thought that this virus is changing the very fabric of our society is terrifying and enough to make me want to spend whole days in bed. I hope you are doing better than I am right now. I hope you are happy and fulfilled, I hope your life is full of laughter and happiness. I hope you’ve achieved some of your goals. Right now, the thought of moving on with school or a career is laughable. Everything, everyone, is at a standstill. It’s hard to move forward when the future is so uncertain. I’m supposed to tell you my ideal situation, but right now, I would settle for having Jughead home and being able to go to school. If you had asked me two months ago my answer would have been something along the lines of wanting a nice house in the suburbs, or a small town upstate, a couple of kids, a successful career for an online paper so I could work from home.  _

_ That all seems so arbitrary now. And I know, realistically, that things will most likely go back to normal at some point, but that seems so impossible. How can an entire society erase this trauma and move on? How can we possibly hope to move past this?  _

_ I guess most of all, I hope that you learned how to get past this and continue living. _

Betty stared at her words, picking at her now cold chicken. She really did hope, with all her heart, that someday she would look back at today and feel stronger despite it. 


	8. Day Eight

Betty sat on the couch, her notebook balanced in her lap and her pen twirling between her fingers. Her ability to change out of pajamas was slowly dissipating every day. She wasn’t doing her hair anymore, hadn’t been doing her makeup for days, and she saw no point in changing out of her clothes when no one was going to see her anyways. She had caught up on all her school work and editing for the school newspaper. She had been filling her extra time watching more television than she ever thought possible. She and Jughead were not usually big TV people, but they subscribed to Netflix like everyone else their age, if only to have The Office play quietly in the background as they made dinner. 

Now, however, she was four episodes into Tiger King and slowly losing her sanity. Jughead had been watching it from LA and they had been texting constantly throughout the day with new theories, evidence they thought was compelling, and outrage on behalf of various characters. 

She had needed to take a break after the last episode, needing to focus on something other than big cats and polygamy and murder. 

Betty read the prompt over again from her email on her phone and then stopped twirling her pen, ready to put it to paper. 

**Your prompt for the day:**

**Pick a time period, age, or moment from your life. Don't think too hard about your choice, just write down the first one that comes to mind.**

**Next, pick a song to pair with each moment. Again, try not to think too hard. Let it be a gut thing.** **Now write a paragraph about it.**

_ My first bike ride - age seventeen - Amazing by One eskimO _

_ I was terrified to get on that bike. First of all, my mother would be furious. Second, and I wasn’t trying to be mean, but Jughead could barely drive his dad’s truck, and now I was supposed to climb onto the back of a bike with him?  _

_ Like I said, I was justifiably scared.  _

_ But in the end, I had climbed onto the back of that bike, if only because I knew it would make him happy. He kicked the bike alive and then smiled at me, beaming from ear to ear, beckoning for me to climb up. I checked the strap under my chin one last time and then placed a hand on his shoulder, gently swinging my leg up and over the seat.  _

_ It took a little finessing, but I was finally seated comfortably behind him, unsure of where to put my hands.  _

_ He had yelled something along the lines of “Hold on tight!” before taking off down the street. I just squealed and wrapped my arms securely around his middle. After the initial burst of speed, Jughead had slowed down to a leisurely pace. I didn’t really pay attention to where we were going, I was much more focused on keeping my eyes trained on the back of his leather jacket.  _

_ I don’t know how long I stayed like that, arms hanging on for dear life, eyes boring into his back. It wasn’t until his twisted his head back, so that his mouth was directly beside my ear, that I moved.  _

_ “Betts, look up.”  _

_ I slowly pried my gaze away from the black leather and looked over his shoulder. We were on a dirt road. When had we left town? The road was smooth, despite the fact that it was dirt, like it had been there for eons, worn down by many a traveler. The air smelled crisp and fresh, like the perfect summer’s day. Then, I directed my gaze upwards and gasped loudly. I could feel Jughead’s laughter rumbling through his chest at my reaction.  _

_ On either side of the road were huge oak trees, their branches reaching up to touch the sky, meeting to meld together over the middle of the road. The result was a lush, green canopy, with beams of sunlight poking through. It felt like we were traveling through a tunnel to another universe. It was otherworldly, and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I had gripped Jughead’s jacket tighter in my palms, trying to ground myself to reality.  _

_ There was a break in the trees on the left side of the road, letting light spill onto the road. He had pulled the bike through the break, and I had to stifle another gasp. We were sitting on top of a small hill overlooking Riverdale. The grass was tall and soft, swaying in the light summer’s breeze.  _

_ He had barely turned the bike off before I was hopping off, removing my helmet and rushing to stand at the edge of the small cliff we were situated on.  _

_ I told him it was beautiful, and he had just smiled at me as he walked up to meet me.  _

_ “Not bad for your first bike ride?” he smirked, tousling his hair.  _

_ I had smiled at him, stretching up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. If this was what riding the bike was like, I never wanted to ride anything else.  _


	9. Day Nine

**Your prompt for today:**

**Choose a line from a book—you can grab the nearest one and flip it open to a random page, or pick an old favorite you’ve memorized by heart. Whatever grabs your attention; whatever intrigues. Use it as the opening sentence for today’s journal entry, and let the words flow from there.**

Betty was staring intently at her bookshelves. She wanted to pick a good quote for her journal entry. She and Jughead had spent the last three years collecting books, both old and new, to fill their shelves. There were classics, contemporaries, fantasy, true crime, romance, YA. You name it, and they probably had something from that genre. And yet, despite the wide variety of choices she had in front of her, she couldn’t find something that was perfect. She had taken to grabbing her favorite reads from the last few weeks and looking up their most popular quotes online. 

She had been close to losing hope that she would find a quote that summed up how she was feeling. She was missing Jughead, more than she could comprehend. It no longer felt like an aching loss, but like a fundamental part of herself was missing, like she had lost a limb and was now trying to learn how to function without it. 

A flash of blinding yellow caught her eye, and before she could overthink it, she reached up and grabbed the book down off the shelf. She ran a hand over the cover, feeling its smooth jacket under her palm. It hadn’t been too long since she had read this particular book, maybe a month. It was YA, from an author that she truly loved. The characters were genuine and flawed and absolutely perfect in her mind. There was one moment in the novel that was sticking out in her mind, and she knew exactly what quote she wanted. 

Betty flipped through the pages, trying to pinpoint exactly where in the book the scene took place. She found it soon enough, smiling as she reread the passage. The words were perfect, describing exactly how she felt. She walked quickly to the table, setting the open book down while pulling the typewriter closer to herself. 

_ “I'd give him all that I am. _

_ I'd give him all that I was. _

_ I'd open up a vein. _

_ I'd tie our hearts together, chamber by chamber.” _

_ I’d willing give you the blood in my veins.  _

_ anything you asked for, you could have.  _

_ My skin? A lung? My heart?  _

_ Take them. They already belong to you. _

_ They say your cells all replace themselves after seven years.  _

_ Which means there isn’t a cell in my body that doesn’t know your touch, _

_ your kiss, _

_ your love.  _

_ So you can have my skin,  _

_ because it already knows you well. _

_ My lungs fill with air that you breathe into them, _

_ in and out,  _

_ rise and fall,  _

_ in and out.  _

_ So you can have my lungs, _

_ because they breathe your breath.  _

_ My heart patters chaotically when you’re around, _

_ and not at all when you’re gone.  _

_ Your love acting like a pump, _

_ pushing the blood through my veins, _

_ ba-bump, ba-bump. _

_ So you can have my heart,  _

_ because it has always been yours.  _

_ I’d tie us together so that we may never again be apart, _

_ This distance far too much, far too far.  _

_ Take what you want of my flesh,  _

_ as long as your lips make sweet promises that you will _

_ never  _

_ leave me  _

_ again.  _

Betty looked at the page in front of her, seeing her soul laid bare on the page. She had never considered poetry as something she could be good at. She read the words, again and again, finding their truthfulness more and more with each reread. 

The writing was raw, broken, and heartfelt. The knife in her heart working in a little deeper each time she rad it, but she supposed that’s what made it real. 

She was hurting, and it wasn’t going away until she was whole again. 


	10. Day Ten

It was late and Betty was lying in bed. They had bought a new mattress when they had moved into the apartment, upgrading from a twin that they could both barely fit into, to a queen. It had never felt too large for Betty. It allowed them to both have space on the occasion that they didn’t want to cuddle and Betty was a restless sleeper, so it gave Jughead a chance to escape her swinging limbs on her particularly restless nights. 

But now that she had slept in their bed alone for weeks, she could easily conclude that it was too much bed for one person. It felt gargantuan, like the empty space would swallow her in her sleep. 

Betty had been having trouble sleeping, her bedtime getting later and later. Insomnia was something that she hadn’t suffered with for so long that she had almost forgotten it had been a problem once upon a time.

Back in high school, she had been plagued with insomnia almost every night, her swirling thoughts keeping her awake until the early hours in the morning. When she had moved to New York with Jughead, the problem had quickly gone away. His body pressed against hers had given her a sense of security and safety that she hadn’t known she was missing. 

When Jughead had first been gone, she had convinced herself that she would be okay. She was determined to be strong. That was all well and fine, until the quarantine had stretched their time apart longer than they had ever intended it to be. 

She had been pretty hard on herself the last week, ashamed that she couldn’t sleep well without her boyfriend. She had been calling herself down to all kinds of new lows, throwing around words like  _ clingy  _ and  _ codependent _ . 

It was those nasty thoughts that were inspiring her writing that night, her pen scribbling furiously around the paper of her notebook. 

**Your prompt for today:**

**Write about a time where you were dead wrong about someone.**

_ Clarisse Ringer.  _

_ She’s a girl that I work with at the school paper. I had actually been the one to accept her application. She had checked all my boxes: punctual, efficient, straight-forward. She seemed like she would be a great addition to our office, and so we brought her on.  _

_ I had such a good feeling about her. She was kind to everyone she spoke to, got along great with all the upperclassmen, and worked hard. Everything seemed like it was going great.  _

_ The position itself was fairly minor. It was most proof-reading for grammatical errors, as all the writers were busy with their own projects.  _ _ There were a few freshmen who had been hired to tackle the piles of articles that they ran each week in the paper.  _

_ It hadn’t been more than a week before I heard the first complaint. It was from another freshman, complaining that Clarisse was making rude comments to the other proof-readers when they were working. I had assured the girl that I would look into it, although I was hoping that it wouldn’t become a problem. I liked Clarisse, and not just because the girl brought me a hot latte every day.  _

_ I had asked Clarisse about the incident, relieved when the girl in question said that it must have been a misunderstanding, that she had a dry sense of humor and her coworker must have misinterpreted what she meant. I remember thanking the girl for her honesty and sending her on her way, thankful that I could avoid an awkward office meeting broaching the subject.  _

_ A few more weeks had gone by, and then I received another complaint along the same lines from a different student, this time a sophomore. The boy in question said that Clarisse had been making rude and judgemental comments about people’s personal lives while they were all sitting and proof-reading. He had said that it had been going for a while, but no one had wanted to speak up.  _

_ Again, I told the boy that I would deal with it, and again I spoke to Clarisse and she assured me that it was another misunderstanding. She even went so far as to tell me that she would apologize to the boy who had spoke up. I sent her on her way again, this time feeling a little less sure of myself.  _

_ I decided to do a little sleuthing before I had another student coming to me to complain. So the next day, I disguised myself, which, yes, in case you were wondering, I did feel a little ridiculous. I wore a long brown wig, black clothes, a fake nose ring, and thick-rimmed glasses. I made sure I showed up early and got a desk near the back so that no one would really be able to see me. The lighting at the back of the room was abysmal, which meant that most of the proof-readers didn’t sit back there. I grabbed a handful of articles and started working, keeping my head down as everyone else walked in. There were about six students in all, and most of them didn’t give me a second look, they were used to random students coming in from time to time, as most of the literary teachers used proof-reading as extra credit.  _

_ I waited for them all the get settled and start chatting, but they didn’t. They all sat and got to work, but there was no talking. Now, I had been a part of my fair share of proof-reading sessions, and the one thing that was never lacking was chatter. It was so strange to me that no one was speaking. I needed to push things along, it would seem.  _

_ I asked everyone how their weekend had been, pitching my voice down a half an octave for good measure. There was a smattering of responses, but nothing that would get a conversation going. I tried something a little less general, asking how everyone was holding up.  _

_ This was back when the virus wasn’t in America yet, the threat had still been low enough that we were at school, business as usual. No one spoke again, although I did notice a few of them look around at each other, a look akin to worry on their faces. I needed to push harder, it would seem.  _

_ “I’m not doing so good myself. My boyfriend has been gone for a couple weeks now. I’m...having a time sleeping without him.” I had thought that maybe if I got a little personal someone would open up. A sweet sophomore named Sabrina spoke up. _

_ “That really sucks about your boyfriend. Have you tried drinking chamomile before…” _

_ She hadn’t been able to finish her sentence before another voice had cut her off.  _

_ “That is the most pathetic, co-dependent, bullshit I’ve ever heard. I hope you don’t call yourself a feminist, I would be ashamed to call myself one if I were you, and furthermore…” _

_ I hadn’t listened for too long before I had stood up. I understood perfectly now why no one was talking. I had felt so foolish for not taking the complaints against Clarisse more seriously. I walked towards the girl, who was still spewing hateful words, and pulled off the wig and glasses.  _

_ I would be lying if I said that I didn’t get a little bit of satisfaction seeing the disbelief bloom on her face, her words coming to a screeching halt. I had walked calmly over to her desk, gently taking the articles that were sitting on her desk.  _

_ “We don’t allow that kind of hateful talk in our office. You’re free to go.” The girl in question had left quickly, probably thoroughly embarrassed that she had been caught being nasty by the editor. I had apologized to the others in the room for not taking action sooner and ended up taking them all for coffee. It was astonishing to see how differently they acted once Clarisse was gone, and I had enjoyed the rest of my afternoon listening to them talk about their classes, boyfriend and girlfriend problems, and other freshman drama.  _

Betty was still a little embarrassed that she had been so wrong about Clarisse and, if she was being completely honest with herself, she had taken the girls’ words to heart. Betty had been beating herself up for over a week now, desperately trying to prove to herself that she wasn’t clingy or codependent, that she didn’t need the heat of Jughead’s body behind her to sleep. 

She set her notebook aside and laid down in bed, huffing when she felt the cold fingers of restlessness grip her. 

She clenched her teeth, tossing and turning for a few minutes. Then she remembered something that Sabrina had said to her as they had left the coffee shop that day. 

“You shouldn’t feel bad about needing your boyfriend to sleep. I think it’s sweet. I kinda wished that someone needed me like that. It’s not weak to need people, you know?”

Betty sighed gently, reminding herself to check in with all her staff at the paper tomorrow. She wanted to make sure they were all doing alright. 

She grabbed her phone off the desk, dialing the number she knew by heart. The icy fingers relaxed their grip as soon as his voice, smooth as honey, came through the phone. 

“Hey, Betts.”

“Hey,” she whispered, already feeling better. 

“Can’t sleep?” She smiled, loving that he knew without her saying. She snuggled in the sheets, pulling the blanket up to her neck. She hummed in the affirmative. 

“Tell me a story, Jug.” He chuckled into the receiver, the sound turning her insides to liquid. 

“Once upon a time…”


	11. Day Eleven

**Your prompt for today:**

**Reflect on a moment where you did something that left you feeling nourished and sated. Where hours passed, yet you didn’t even know it. When you were right where you needed to be. Maybe it’s a memory of spending time with a loved one, or a long-discarded childhood activity. Maybe it’s a more recent hobby. Write about this experience. Write about being nourished and what it means to you.**

_ Being nourished is something that I don’t have much experience with. My mother never held our emotional well-being as a top priority. She always considered academic success as much more important than if we were happy.  _

_ As a result, I was well into my teen years before I even understood what it meant to truly lose myself in something that made me happy. That’s how I felt when I started the Blue and Gold up again. There was nothing that could distract me like hours of research to go through. I would lose myself completely in the details of an article. I could sit for hours on end, skimming through medical reports, old newspapers, and articles online.  _

_ It wasn’t always about writing the perfect article. There were days when reading the research in front of me was simply a way to cope with my life. I could control how fast I read, or what information I thought was pertinent, which was more than I could say about my life somedays.  _

_ There was a true sense of peace that came over me in those early days, when I needed to escape from my mother, or when my life just got too complicated.  _

_ It was a big reason why I joined the paper at NYU. I mean, obviously I wanted to join because it would look good on my resume, but I knew that eventually, I would crave the solitary silence of sitting at a desk for an indeterminate amount of time, reading through information long forgotten. So I joined the paper my first week at school, at it’s been my place to seek solace ever since. I’m really starting to feel the strain now, after being home for a week. I miss my desk, my sticky notes, by piles and piles of articles to sort through. We are still doing an online version of the paper, but it doesn’t feel quite the same. I just want this all the be over, I want to get back to my life. I want some normalcy.  _

Betty sat at the table, her last sentences ringing through her mind. She slammed her hand down on the table. There was no reason why she couldn’t find a way to nourish her soul, so to speak, while she was at home. She marched into her bedroom, laying flat on the floor beside her bed. There was a short, narrow box that hid under their bed, and she grabbed it and pulled it out. 

She stood up with the box, putting on on their bed. The smell of old paper hit her as she opened the top. Inside were old cases that Betty and Jughead had hit a wall with. There were plenty, for every mystery they cracked, there was another that stumped them. She grabbed one off the top and took it back to the table, sitting down and taking off the elastic that held all the papers together. 

It wasn’t quite the same as working at her desk as school, but for now, it would have to do. She would read these old case files and pour through clues and evidence until she felt nourished. Until she felt full. 


	12. Day Twelve

It was Easter, and Betty was alone. At least, she was physically alone. It was only three in the afternoon and already she had video chatted with Kevin, Veronica and Archie, Polly, Jason, and the twins, Cheryl and Toni, and even her mother. 

She was doing her best to keep in touch with everyone, but there were so many days where, despite feeling lonelier than ever, she just wanted to be alone. She could recognize that these were probably the days that she needed to talk to her people the most, and yet she struggled to push the call button. 

Archie and Veronica were probably the hardest for her. It was almost all she could do to not ride the elevator up to their floor and knock on their door. It was killing Betty to know that they were only fifteen floors away, and yet they were out of her reach. 

There had been a talk at the beginning of quarantine about Betty coming to stay with them, but she had declined their offer. She loved them, and she was definitely going a little stir-crazy from solitude, but she relished in having her own space. She couldn’t imagine not having her own space, especially on days like today where it was all she could do to pull herself out of bed. 

If Jughead were home, they would have been making dinner now. They didn’t make the traditional turkey dinner for Easter, instead opting to pick a new recipe every year. Every year that they had been living together, one of them had been in charge of choosing a new recipe for dinner, the other a new recipe for the side. They had definitely had some interesting years, like last year when Jughead had chosen buttered chicken and Betty had chosen maple pecan sweet potatoes. It was an unlikely pairing, but one they had recreated several times in the following year. 

Betty had spent most of the morning searching for recipes that she could make from what she had left in the apartment. Most of the things she wanted to try, like creamy Tuscan chicken or seafood paella, required many ingredients that she didn’t have. Sure, she could have used a food delivery service to get the ingredients brought to her, but the number of essential service workers who were testing positive was sky-rocketing, and she just couldn’t bring herself to endure the risk. 

Which was what led her to the recipe of the evening, loaded Mac ‘N’ Cheese. She had just enough bacon, breadcrumbs, and macaroni to cobble together a decent, restaurant-style dish. 

She sat on the couch, the TV playing in the background, a bowl of her macaroni balanced on one knee, her notebook on the other. She was taking her time with the journaling prompt for the day, wanting to ensure that she gave herself enough time to fully consider all her options. 

**You prompt for today:**

**Write about your blessings. About what it was like to wake up today, about the people you love, about the songs that have lifted your spirits. Write about the wind in the trees, or of rebirth in spring, or of freedom. Write about whatever gives you life, which—especially in troubled times, we remember—is so precious.**

_ I am blessed to have the support system that I do. I have so many people in my life who love me, who want to see me succeed, who cheer me on as I cheer them on. These people are more than just friends. They are my family. Kevin, Veronica, Archie, Cheryl, Toni, Polly. These people make up my closest circle, my confidants. I love them more than I ever thought I could love someone. They are everything to me, and I know that once this quarantine is over, I will be doing whatever I need to do to see them.  _

_ I am blessed to be able to read. I know, it seems so basic, but there are people out there who were never given the opportunity to learn, and that breaks my heart. I have been filling so much of my time at home with reading, tackling the ever-growing pile of books that go into my  _ to-read  _ stack, I can’t imagine what my life would be like right now if I wasn’t able to entertain myself with reading. If I wasn’t able to fall into a good book and leave this world behind, if only for a little while.  _

_ I am blessed to have grown up somewhere that gave me an appreciation for the outdoors. I know that one of the first things I will be doing when we are allowed to go outside again will be to curl up under a tree, my back resting against the scratchy bark, the grass between my fingers.  _

_ Most of all, I am blessed to have Jughead. There is one thing that I am certain of, and it is that I am with the right person. He isn’t perfect, and neither am I. Far from it, actually. I don’t know how to explain it correctly, but even though he isn’t perfect, he is perfect for me. His strengths and weaknesses complement mine, making us stronger together than we could be apart. When I think about it, it’s the little things that I miss the most. Him making me a cup of coffee in the morning, the way he rubs my back when we sit on the couch, how he always asks how I’m feeling.  _

_ It’s not just the things that I love that I miss. I’m finding that I miss all the little things that used to annoy me to no end. I miss his socks on the floor, his papers strewn everywhere, the way he mispronounces bagels on purpose. I miss everything about him, the good and the bad. And for that, I feel blessed. Blessed that I have been lucky enough to find someone who I love, warts and all, and who loves me the same way.  _

The bowl of finished macaroni sat on the couch beside Betty, her notepad resting in her hands as she contemplated if she wanted to add more to her entry. Her screen lit up with a chime, and she smiled when she saw his face displayed, the message indicating an incoming video call. Her writing could wait until later, she was going to spend time with the love of her life in the only way she could. 


	13. Day Thirteen

It was raining and Betty couldn’t have been happier. She sat in the window, gazing out the glass, the window open just enough to let in the scent of fresh rain and springtime. The smell revitalized her, making her feel as though the rain was symbolically washing away all the sadness that had clung to her in the past week.

Of course, she still missed Jughead. She felt like a part of her was missing without him in the apartment, but she was beginning to settle into the quarantine. She had made herself a routine of sorts that would prevent her from sulking around all day. 

It wasn’t anything too strenuous, in fact, it mostly consisted of getting up before noon, changing out of her pajamas, and making sure that she ate at least three times a day. That was it. 

But she was finding that it was the little things that mattered the most. 

The chaotic need to clean the apartment spotless had subsided, mostly because she had already cleaned everything that could be cleaned. She had overdone it on TV already, her eyes burning from staying up until three in the morning binging random shows. 

There wasn’t much else to do except find a balance. She knew that if she did anything too much she would burn out, and then that would be one less thing that she could fill her time with.

She tried to split up the activities that she could do to keep herself busy, never doing any one thing in excess. 

She read, wrote, cleaned, baked, watched TV, and went on runs. She tried to choose a few things to do each day and then split up her time as best she could. Betty wasn’t used to being cooped up, and she knew that her mental health wouldn’t fair well if she let herself do whatever she wanted without checks and balances. 

She made rules. Small, flexible ones. She didn’t allow herself to watch more than three hours of TV a day. She made it a rule not to finish a book in a single day. She only baked one thing a day. It was these little restrictions that were allowing her to keep her sanity, to know that if she didn’t overdo any one thing, that she could hold out in solitary a lot longer than if she went overboard. 

She took a deep breath in, letting the smell of rain cleanse her spirit. There really was nothing she loved more than the smell of the first rain of Spring. Betty held her pen loosely in her fingers, waiting to be ready to begin the day’s prompt. It was more difficult than some of the others had been. It required an honesty that she didn’t want to permit. She took one last deep gulp of air and put the pen to paper. 

**Your prompt for today:**

**I invite you to reflect on a new beginning that was meaningful for you. You might think about a literal beginning: new job, relationship, state of being (pre-child to parent, singledom to marriage). You might think about a new conviction, habit, or a crucial choice you made: when you decided to stop apologizing all the time, that summer you actually started meditating, or the day you stopped drinking. Tell the story of your new beginning. What did it make room for? Why was it important? How did your new beginning lead you to where you are today?**

_ It’s a new beginning I don’t like talking about a lot. It’s not something that I ever thought that I would have to do, something that most people don’t have to do, something that I wish I wouldn’t have had to do.  _

_ The day that I made the choice that I had had enough, that I was tired of being pushed around, called down to the lowest, told what to do by someone who didn’t have my best interests at heart. The day I told my mother that she was no longer in charge of me was the hardest day of my life.  _

_ I had never stood up to her before. I had been content for so long being trapped in the cage that she kept me, hoping that if I did everything right I could please her, that maybe I could garner her respect and praise. It took me a long time to realize that that day might never come, and even longer to realize that that was no fault of mine. _

_ It’s not my fault that my mother has high standards, that she is never satisfied, that she craves perfection like a man in the desert craves water.  _

_ The day that I told Alice Cooper that she wasn’t allowed to mistreat me anymore, that I would not stand by idly and let her make my decisions for me, had been the start of a new life. One where I was in control.  _

_ Certainly, there were times where my mother found my tooth and nail for that control back, and there were times that it felt like she had won, like when she had given all my college money to the Farm, or when she sent me to the Sister of Quiet Mercy. But taking responsibility for your own life, your own choices, is never easy, especially when there is someone on the other side who is doing everything in their power to keep you right where you are.  _

_ There were days, weeks, where I had to remind myself that even if it felt like I wasn’t in control, that I was the captain of my vessel. I hadn’t sat by idly when Mom took my money, I tried to find a way to fight her on it.  _

_ I didn’t go quietly to the Sister’s and I didn’t obey while I was there.  _

_ I realized, long after we moved away from Riverdale, that taking charge of your life isn’t always so black and white. There will always be those who seek to control others, and sometimes they may even feel like they’ve succeeded. But they only win if you sit down, if you are complacent if you follow them quietly into the dark.  _

_ The day I told my mother that she had no control over me was the day that I stopped accepting whatever was thrown my way. It was the day that I decided to fight for myself, that I wouldn’t sit still and let my life happen to me, and it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.  _


	14. Day Fourteen

Betty sat at the typewriter, fingers hovering but unable to start. Writing a love letter to Veronica, Kevin, Jughead, even Archie, would be easier than what was being asked of her. Writing a love letter to herself felt strained, like she was being asked to boast about what she thought the best parts of herself were. 

Betty wasn’t a self-loathing person. She was proud of the woman she had worked hard to become, but writing all that down on paper felt… self-gratifying. It was a practice that she was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. Growing up a Cooper, she had been taught to be the best, but never admit that you were. That kind of thinking was hard to abandon. As she grew up, her need to best first, to be the best, had dulled. She became more comfortable knowing that there was always going to be someone who was better at her than something, and rather than become enraged by that, like her mother would have, she welcomed the notion that she didn’t always have to be  _ better than.  _ That life wasn’t a constant competition, that she always needed to be fighting to remain number one. 

Somewhere along the line, she had learned to be happy with her standing in life. It wasn’t complacency, because that would hint at a lack of drive. It was closer to contentment. She was happy with who she was, she didn’t need to strive to be anything more than what she was. 

Yet, asking her to write a love letter to herself filled her with a sense of dread that she could barely comprehend. She had spent so many years retraining her thinking, that sometimes the act of acknowledging the good things about herself felt like a slippery slope back into her childhood trauma. She didn’t want an elated sense of self-importance, she didn’t need it. 

She took a deep breath, and then another. Her fingers still hovered above the keys, and she was so tempted to call Jughead, to ask him what the best parts of her were, thinking that maybe it would be easier to love herself if she didn’t it through someone else. 

Betty shook her head. She needed to do this without help. She wanted to be able to sit down and exactly what it was that she loved about herself, without someone slipping her the answers. 

**Your prompt for today:**

**Write a love note to yourself. Write it from someone else’s point of view. It can be a real person or a made-up person. Start with the line:** **_Dear [your name], If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are ______._ ** **Write about what they see in you, what they find beautiful.**

_ Dear Betty,  _

_ If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are so much more than you would ever admit. You have worked so hard to become who you are, to rise from the ashes of your past and become someone who is kinder, stronger, more forgiving. _

_ You have managed to not only better yourself, but to somehow find compassion for the person you used to be. You do not cast her aside, which would admittedly be the easier thing to do. No, instead you cradle and soothe that person of your past. That teenager who was hurt and told she wasn’t good enough again and again, you held her and whispered that they were wrong. You loved her until she was whole, until she was ready to leave behind her anger and become a whole with who you wanted to be.  _

_ If you could see what I see, you’d see that you love fiercely and that it’s your best quality. You don’t love people halfway. You love them with everything you are, with everything you have. Even those who others would deem undeserving of your love, you don’t turn them away, you simply hug them tighter. It would probably be fair to say that you have taught others to love themselves through how you love them. Jughead is the first and best example of this.  _

_ You would never be so boastful to say out loud that you single-handedly taught Jughead self-worth, that would diminish all the hard work he has done on himself. No, instead, you can recognize that sometimes the first step in learning to love yourself is seeing what other’s love in you. You spent days, weeks, months, telling Jughead Jones exactly what it was about him that made him amazing, and eventually, he started to believe you. You built a foundation for him to grow upon, a safe place to land, just like he did for you.  _

_ If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are a beacon of light if so many people lives, without actively trying. It simply comes naturally. You want to be the best version of yourself, so that those around you can be the best version of themselves. You push people up, instead of tear them down. Instead of lowering yourself to another’s level, you encourage them to meet you where you are at. You start every day with positivity, so that you can help others.  _

_ You are a good person, Betty Cooper, despite what that mean inner voice would try to tell you. You do the best you can, every day, unfailingly. You love people with everything you have, you give yourself to those who need it, and you never shy away from someone in need.  _

_ You are wondrous.  _

_ You are compassionate.  _

_ You are radiant.  _

_ Don’t forget that.  _

_ Love,  _

_ You.  _


End file.
